


Starlight

by peacefultyranny



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, lazy morning handjobs, more gay feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 13:11:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3135704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peacefultyranny/pseuds/peacefultyranny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mornings are a subjective concept when you're on a starship and not currently orbiting a star, no slowly dawning light to say hey, wake up, it's morning time!</p>
<p>Rodimus does enjoy human culture and waking up with someone warm and inviting in his bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Starlight

**Author's Note:**

> The working title for this was "I'm Really F*cking Gay" and it still stands tbh.

Mornings are a subjective concept when you're on a starship and not currently orbiting a star, no slowly dawning light to say _hey, wake up, it's morning time!_ One could argue, perhaps, that morning was the shift right before peak shift, where everyone necessary to the ship's function was awake at once to make sure everything was going well, but even that was questionable. It's doubly so when the cybertronian species as a whole doesn't have a concept of 'mornings' that imply the start of a day – indeed, mornings imply a time of day that's measured with the sun, rather than a precise number of hours that, when added together, equalled the exact amount of time it took Cybertron to orbit her mother sun. Day and night meant little on Cybertron and, surely enough, with no concept of a universal off-shift, the cities never slept.

Seasons, too, are fairly subjective, what with Cybertron's orbit being scientifically classified as wonky. It's hard to measure things like spring and winter when the planet's axial tilt likes to wobble at random, and when there's no true cycle of vegetation or migration cycles or anything that would imply a seasonal change. Seasons simply don't happen on a planet made entirely of metal with no atmosphere that really supports weather as an organic might know it – beyond the lightning storms, of course, but with no liquid on the surface, there's nothing really like rain or snow.

This, though...this, Rodimus figured counted as a classic human lazy summer morning.

The sheets are warm and soft and comforting (and completely unnecessary and, according to Ratchet, likely to smother him in his sleep, but who cares) around him – _summer_. It's quite a while before he has to get up and get ready to go anywhere, which he can probably be late for anyways, which means laying around in bed for a while longer – _lazy_.

And, well, it's before his shift and it's a time for waking up. That, in his entirely subjective and _not at all_ influenced by earth culture opinion, counts as a morning.

Huffing a content sigh through his auxiliary vents, he wraps his arms tighter around the bundle of blankets – all of the blankets on the bed, which would explain why he's only got the sheet on him - against his chest and nuzzles his face into it. Said bundle shifts slightly at his movement and the body buried beneath the layers of blankets slowly uncurls, one white arm stretching out towards the headrest followed soon after by the other.

“Morning,” the captain says softly, voice still thick with sleep. The other mech continues to stretch out from their tight curl, backs of their legs sliding smoothly over the fronts of Rodimus's, and presses their back flush against his chest.

“G'morning,” Drift replies tiredly, optics dim and a small, content smile on his lips when he turns his helm enough to see him. “You're up early.” His hands fold back over his helm to pet the back of the speedster's helm, fingertips playing with the pointed tips of his cheek armour. Rodimus purrs at the contact and leans in.

“Mmhm. Slept pretty well last night,” he replies, ducking his helm to kiss Drift's cheek armour while the white mech laughed softly. He tilts his helm to the side while Rodimus trails lazy, warm kisses lower, humming.

“That so?” His voice holds a laugh in it, and Rodimus grins against his partner's neck cables. He mouths idly at a fuel line and – finally – manages to slip his hands under the mass of blankets to slide his palms over Drift's shapely hips and stomach, fingertips smoothing over lines and seams in armour long since mapped and re-mapped. Drift's optics dim to nearly offline as his fans spool on. “I take it you woke up pretty well, too.”

The captain just hums in response and glides his mouth down the back of the swordsmech's neck, tugging those hips backwards until theyre flush together – and no blanket between them this time. The fingers on his stomach trace wobbly patterns lower, the soft, textured polymer-coated tips dragging smoothly over high-gloss paint. They press over pelvic panelling – firm, but not quite insistent, more a question than a demand – and Drift breathes a soft ex-vent out his mouth.

The covers fold away, and Rodimus gets the treat of slowly coaxing Drift's cable from its housing, fingertips brushing teasing, circling touches over the head and down its length as it slowly extends. Drift shakily ex-vents again, optics offline and lips parted, and it's a face Rodimus feels like he could stare at all day. He can't help but think that Drift is absolutely gorgeous, in pleasure or otherwise, and he does what he can to prolongue the moment; loosely wrapping his fingers around the swordsmech's cable, he drags his hands over it in slow, smooth motions that can't be considered true pumps, too light and almost teasing.

Drift shudders against him and gently presses into each touch, soft, eager noises escaping his open mouth, and Rodimus's engine rumbles against his back. Couched in the quiet peace, with the only light coming through the viewport from the distant starlight hitting the exposed super-heated gasses in the nebula they were currently passing, and the gentle thrum of the Lost Light's engines the only noise beyond the gentle moans, Drift's pleasure draws out into something almost blissful and aching.

His vents catch suddenly and thighs squeeze together, and that's the only warning the red mech is given before Drift spills wet heat into his hand, a soft, drawn-out keen escaping him. There's a little shiver, and then the swordsmech stretches and tilts his helm to press his lips to his captain's, their engines purring contently.

Drift smiles. “Love you,” he breathes against the other mech's lips, optics offlining again so he can properly bask in his afterglow. Rodimus's spark does something that's probably not medically safe as he presses another gentle kiss to Drift's lips.

“Love you too.”

Definitely a perfect lazy summer morning.


End file.
